from the time before he went off to school and used to go out
to the Christian place to see little Bill Christian, Bill had had
a little sister, not much more than a baby then. He must
remember the name from that time, somehow, having for-
gotten it all the fifteen years in between. He could not re-
member anything about the child, though, not even what she
looked like. "And I remember you, too," he said.
"I don't remember you," she returned blandly, almost as
though with pleasure in the fact.
" We ain't got ten feet," Mr. Christian said. He took off his
black felt hat and mopped a handkerchief over his sunburned,
heavy-jowled face and red moustaches, and over his bald,
enormous skull, that shone in the light like a piece of some
stone, like onyx veined with tiny red lines, carved to that
shape and polished to a glitter. " God knows I'm glad these
folks are here. I been working two months to get 'em here,
but can't they move just a little faster?" he demanded, and
glared at his daughter and Mr. Munn as though they were
responsible for the confused and dilatory pack of people and
the crowded vehicles. " All I want to do is get this nag in
the Hvery stable and get to my meeting." Mr. Christian
pushed the soaked wad of his handkerchief into the breast
pocket of his black coat and pulled the black felt hat over the
glittering, red-veined dome of his skull.
" Mr. Bill," Mr. Munn said, " I can get a boy from the hotel
stable to take the buggy. He can put the horse in my stall. I
got a stall there now, and I rode out home the other day and
came back on the train this morning."
"That's fine," Mr. Christian replied.
Mr. Munn stepped to the ground, took off his hat to the
girl, and began to force his way toward the hotel The wide
doorway was almost blocked by loiterers who took advantage
of the shade there and of the height to peer out over the
heads of the crowd. Mr. Munn got past them. After the
brightness of the sun in the street, the interior of the hotel
was, for the moment, like a great dark cavern full of shadowy
moving forms and the insistent rise and hum of voices, a!*